Then he pushed his pants lower, freeing himself fully. The sight stole my breath—thick, flushed, wicked in the fading light. A dark smile curving his lips as his fist wrapped around the length of him, stroking with tantalizing control.
There was no way—no way I was going to survive him.And he knew it.
“Ah—!”
A cry slipped out as he sank a finger into me, easy but unyielding, the pressure lighting up every nerve. I arched instinctively, caught between the sight of his hand stroking himself and the way he held me open with the other.
“Do you like that, Emma?” he purred, curling his finger just right.
A sound—low, helpless—broke from me. Pleasure pooled deep in my center, tightening in rhythmic pulses.
His shoulder flexed as he continued stroking himself, each measured pump matching the motion of his fingers inside me. My eyes fell to the motion—the precision, the control—and the last thread broke.
“Oh, god,” I moaned into the cool night breeze.
He dropped lower, never breaking eye contact as his teeth caught the thin lace of my panties. He dragged them down my thighs with nothing but his mouth, and even then, his free hand never stopped, his touch coaxing more from me with every stroke.
Then his mouth replaced his fingers.
A sharp cry tore out of me as his tongue swept through my folds in one long, consuming stroke. My hands flew into his hair, gripping the dark strands as he devoured me—easy, then deep, then punishingly thorough.
The pleasure climbed fast—too fast—coiling tight in my belly. Each pass of his mouth, each curl of his fingers, pulled me closer to the edge he was dragging me toward.
I seized around them, around the warmth of his mouth as he licked the wetness he’d created. His tongue moved with hungry purpose, deeper now, drinking every reaction from me like it was his right.
“Damien—” My voice cracked. “I’m—God, I’m going to—”
“That’s it,” he growled against my skin. “Let go for me.”
My release hit hard, tearing through me in sharp, overwhelming waves. He stayed with me the whole way down—steady, focused—his touch gentling until the last shudder left my body and the world settled again.
“Damien, that was—”
The words barely left my lips when I felt him shift—felt the thick head of him brush against me as he adjusted.
He stilled. “Emma.” His voice was rough, strained. “I don’t have a condom.”
The words landed somewhere distant, muffled by the haze still clinging to my mind. I blinked, processing.
“I’m on birth control,” I breathed. “It’s fine. I want—” I swallowed. “I want to feel you.”
A sound rumbled through his chest—something between a groan and a prayer. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Please.”
He leaned forward, lips crashing together in a mix of frenzied need.
Then pressure.
Heavy, stretching pressure that stole the sound from my lungs.
A broken whimper slipped out, and he froze instantly above me.
“Are you okay?” Hunger edged with concern.
I nodded, breath unsteady. “Yes… just go slow.”
Something softened in him. He cupped my cheek, planting little kisses on my lips, my temple, my forehead as he easedforward again in careful, measured pulses. Each one asked a question. Each one waited for my body to answer.
